


Done™

by covetsubjugation



Series: The Infamous Story of 'The Squad' [20]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 16:53:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7582180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covetsubjugation/pseuds/covetsubjugation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George Washington is so done. He is <em>so</em> done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Done™

**Author's Note:**

> Otherwise known as The Five Times George Washington was Done, and The One Time He Was Not.
> 
> I make him sound like some sort of roast chicken, jesus.

Something is going to go wrong. He can feel it.

George eyes Alexander at the other end of the table. Usually the man would be full of ideas and suggestions, talking a mile a minute. His mind is constantly racing ahead, bursting with opinions and thoughts.

His role as an intern goes far beyond what usual interns do. Usually the interns would be running menial errands, at most they would have contributed to a handful of articles by the end of their internship. And yet, Alexander has surpassed them by a large amount. He has at least one article published in every paper, and has contributed to at least five others within the same publication. He is the bane of Burr’s existence, who is both in charge of the interns and Alexander’s main editor.

And yet today, when he has not one but two articles scheduled for print in this week’s paper, Alexander is increasingly distracted. He has his feet propped up on the table, to the chagrin of those around him, and he is balancing precariously in his chair. At the same time, he hasn’t said a word in the meeting, and is instead texting away.

By any other standard, this would probably be grounds for dismissal, but George knows he would be stupid to not hire Alexander after his stint as an intern. The guy is valuable and he knows it. Is he just pushing his limits?

Burr is rounding up his usual conclusion, and George waits for the question that means he can leave.

“So,” Burr asks diplomatically, shuffling his papers around. “Any violent objections? Any last suggestions?”

Alexander scoffs. George tenses.

“Yeah,” Alexander continues, at half his usual volume, like he doesn't quite realises he is saying it. “Just scrap the whole of this week’s publication.”

Burr’s eyes flash. George mentally tabulates the overtime pay he will owe. It’s not a pretty number.

“Excuse me?” says Burr primly, but every word is laced with danger. Alexander sits up in his chair, tilts his head to the side and smiles.

He’s never going to leave this office, is he?

*

He has to admit the sight of Alexander and Burr drunk is very amusing; However, it is less amusing when he considers the fact he is left alone with his two youngest employees and has the responsibility of ensuring that they don’t die.

In any normal setting, the usual course of action would be to call their emergency contact, but he doesn’t know them off-hand and has no way of checking while at this bar. However, he does know that both of them are orphans and their emergency contacts are definitely not their parents. Which means the likelihood is that their emergency contacts are significant others or friends.

So now he just needs to figure out a way to reach said people…

“Give me the phone,” he says, attempting to push aside drunk grabby hands.

“No!” Burr says, snatching the device away. The force of his body moving sends him flying off the chair and onto the floor. Alex cracks up, laughing like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. The bartender glances at the mess on the floor and then at him. George attempts to keep a straight face, but Burr is lying on the floor, roaring with laughter as well, and so he cracks a smile. He has at least let go of his phone though, so George sweeps it up triumphantly.

He is brought up short by the password.

He knows that Burr’s phone is not protected by the fingerprint scan but an actual password that he has no idea of. Burr is already protesting the unlawful removal of his phone, and Alex is determinedly gripping onto his so George can’t take it. He has to come up with a new way to unlock the phone.

He has no interest in guessing it, no interest in locking himself out of the phone, and so he decides to go for the simpler route: trickery.

“Hey,” George says as casually as possible while pretending he isn’t crying on the inside at the idea of being stuck with two drunk idiots for the rest of the night. “Hey guys, let’s go home.” Neither of them seem particularly overjoyed at the idea.

“Come on,” he cajoles. “Alex, don’t you want to see your friends? Burr, don’t you want to see your… girlfriend?” He has no idea if Burr even dates girls but the man lights up, nodding his head enthusiastically.

“Theo!” he cheers and George nods along earnestly. The bartender is definitely smirking at him.

“Yes, Theo!” he exclaims in relief. “Let me just text her and we can be on our way.” George thinks if Burr was as exuberant everyday as he was drunk, he would probably have a lot more friends. As it is, the man is bouncing up and down in his chair, swaying hard with each landing.

“Okay!” Burr cheers again. “The password is ‘incorrect’.”

George blinks at the phone in his hand, considers sending out a memo to remind all his staff members to get better passwords. If this is the actual standard of passwords at his workplace, he will be very concerned.

As he unlocks the phone and opens the messaging app, he realises how late the hour is. Even worse, the sole contact on the phone with the name ‘Theo’ has their status saying they were last seen several hours ago. In all likelihood, Theo has fallen asleep and cannot actually help their drunk boyfriend.

Just before the panic sets in, he notices a groupchat. One that seems a lot more active and with a familiar name. A quick look through proves they were all talking less than an hour ago and the people in group all seem to be awake. And so he fires off a message, begging for help. Luckily, someone responds, John Laurens, if he remembers the crude username correctly. Friends are quickly dispatched and it isn’t long before they arrive.

“Friends!” Alexander cries happily as he lurches forward into their arms. John Laurens hugs him back tightly, patting him on the back as Alexander babbles away drunkenly. Hercules casually salutes him in greeting before giving a very put-upon sigh as he gazes down at the prone form of a drunk Aaron Burr. George carefully avoids eye contact with Lafayette as the man compliments him; He thinks a blush slips through nonetheless.

As Alexander and Burr are lugged out of the bar, both of them propped up against their friends, cheerily waving at him as they leave, George sighs before ordering another drink from the still smirking bartender.

He needs to look over his job description one more time to ensure “glorified babysitter” isn’t anywhere on it. Just to be sure.

*

He is so done. He is _so_ done.

George would consider himself a rather laid back person. He likes to think he knows when to crack the whip, and when to crack a joke.

But recently, he finds that he envisions himself (with increasing frequency, mind you) sitting in the middle of his office, fire and chaos descending around his desk, while he simply sits and drinks his coffee calmly. This is a mental image that has been plaguing him for quite some time.

His eyes land on the stack of papers in front of him. With a single glance, he can tell that the stack is as big as the palm of his hand; With a second glance, he can see annotations written in both black and bright purple pen. The annotations seem almost to be arguing, with several lines of text crossed out furiously.

Of course, he knows who is the culprit, or rather, who _are_ the culprits.

His computer chimes yet again, and George knows that it is yet another email from the banes of his existence. He resists the urge to cry and/or sweep the papers off his desk; He barely succeeds. He chooses instead to bury his head in his arms.

There is a knock on the door. He considers burying himself.

“Sir?” comes Alexander’s voice from the door. He sounds strange, tense and out of breath. George can already guess why. In fact, he can hear another set of footsteps as well, except that person is clearly tapping their foot.

“Come in,” he finally answers with great reluctancy and like a hurricane, Alexander bursts through the door, Thomas Jefferson trailing behind him. Both of them are wearing identical scowls, arms folded and pointedly not looking at each other. George finds that he has a new mental image of himself dressed in a pinny, running after small children.

“What-” he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose –“is your issue now?”

He immediately regrets asking the question as the two of them explode into a barrage of words, accusations flying left, right and center. He doesn’t pretend to listen, reluctantly checks his email and confirms his suspicion that the two of them are the one who sent him the email.

Why had they even chosen to work together for this project? He has no idea. The two of them could not be any more different, and yet here he sits, listening to them complain about each other. He should change his job title, he thinks to himself, he is more of a glorified babysitter than teacher at this point.

When he finally tunes back into the conversation, it appears the two of them have run out of steam, choosing to glare at each other from opposite sides of the room. He has long learned that he does not actually have to listen to the two of them complain about each other, rarely is there anything important brought up, the two of them just need the time to go at each other.

“Are you done?” he asks. His hand is now covering his whole face; He is trying to block them from his sight so they will at least disappear in some aspect. George knows they know he knows he doesn’t actually need to listen to them, he also knows they won’t be offended at him not even bothering to pretend to listen.

This time, it is Jefferson who answers, eyes still shooting daggers at the smaller man. “Yes, sir.”

“Great,” George answers, slumping onto his desk. “Now get out of my office.”

The two of them glare at each other again, before traipsing out of the room. As the door closes behind them, he realises he is lying on their combined report and he actually has to read it all. He shouts after them, “Stop sending me emails!”

Thank God, he didn’t actually hire the both of them for that internship.

*

He wonders frequently if he crosses any lines being as close to Alexander as he is. Sure, he can’t tell you what his favourite colour is, but he could probably make a calculated guess, seeing as they spend so much time together.

(He thinks it’s green, Alexander wears a lot of green.)

This is the second time he has been added into a group with Alexander’s friends. However, it is the first time he has been added into a group with Alexander’s friends, but not Alexander himself.

He’s confused at first, and slightly concerned that he is breaking some kind of school rule, interacting with students like this. But then Laurens explains the situation, and George rolls his eyes.

Of course, this would happen. An argument between Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton happens, and the whole world is dragged into it. He isn’t actually annoyed, not really, but he is annoyed that he isn’t annoyed at the situation. He thinks he is enjoying it way too much.

“I do not encourage gambling, Laurens,” he sends at first. He is, after all, an educator; He cannot be seen encouraging gambling among his students. But then he remembers the number of times that Alexander and Jefferson have burst into his office, remembers the number of emails from the two of them that sits unanswered in his inbox, remembers how often he was forced to sit down and mediate between the two hardheaded donkeys.  
  
“But put me down for two hours,” he sends after. He deserves to make a little money off them.

*

The first thing he notices when he steps out of his private office is how red Burr’s face is.

“Are you alright, Burr?” he asks.

The second thing he notices is the twitter profile Burr has open on his computer.

At first glance, it doesn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary. The day hasn’t really started yet, so George can’t really fault Burr from being online. But then he looks closer and he understands why Burr’s face is so red.

The name displayed on the profile is simply an ‘A’, and the layout is minimalist, a darkly lit picture of a jawline for the profile photo and an equally dark background. However, the twitter biography is filled with words and as George quickly skims over it, the writing seems vaguely familiar.

His eyes then drop to the tweet pinned onto the profile, and he can feel his own face turning a royal shade of red. The pinned tweet has no words on it, but that’s alright because the gif displayed speaks more than a thousand words.

It is more crude than artistic, a desaturated gif of a young man slowly riding the cock of another, both of their faces twisted into pure pleasure. George doesn’t know where to look so he looks back at the biography and then it all clicks into place.

The letter ‘A’ as the display name, the jawline in the photo, the familiar writing, the seemingly secretive nature of it - this is Alexander’s secret twitter account.

The man has made vague allusions to this account in the past, on his much more public and prominent account, but George had never bothered going to find it, thinking it too much effort. And yet here he is, at 8 am in the bloody morning, looking at what basically constitutes as gay porn with one of his employees.

His mind freezes. _One of his employees…_ George turns and immediately he sees the same thought has come to Aaron Burr. Both of them have found a coworker’s secret twitter account; Both of them have watched gay porn on it. And both of them are now privy to a part of said coworker’s life that they had never wanted to see.

George turns on his heel and heads back into his office.

*

“Sir?” he hears.

His head is burrowed in the dark space of his folded arms, seeking comfort from his ever present headache. But at the sound of the gentle voice, he looks up.

The office has gone quiet around them. Most of the employees have gone, and now the general office is lit only by the glow of Alexander’s computer as it shuts down. Night has fallen outside and if George strains his ears, he thinks he can hear the sound of crickets chirping outside.

“Alexander,” he greets as he sits up in his chair. His back groans in protest. “Are you alright?”

In the barely lit room, Alexander seems both younger and older all at once. The purplish bags under his eyes are highlighted as he smiles. The man shifts his weight to one leg, props himself up on the doorway to George’s office. A hum emits from his throat.

“Never better, sir.”

George looks at his watch; The hour is closer to 12 then it is to 11. His back is not the only one groaning now as he and his stomach join in on the symphony. As he looks back at Alexander, he finds the man to still be smiling gently at him.

Alexander withdraws his hand from behind his back, a white paper bag dangles from his finger. The bag bulges from its contents, and the smell of fried food wafts over, delicious and unhealthy. His stomach growls louder.

“Would you like to join me for dinner, sir?” Alexander asks and with a smile of his own, George beckons him forward.

The two of them end up on the carpeted floor, various takeout dishes strewn around them as they eat. For once, the office is quiet. Not even Alexander is talking as he shovels food into his mouth. Washington’s watch beeps on his wrist, announcing the start of the new day.

Up close, the bags under Alexander’s eyes are worse and George notices the greasiness of his hair, the slight sallowness to his skin. “Son,” he starts, “how are you? Really?”

Alexander glances up at him, tucks a stray hair behind his ear. His other hand holds the food in his lap. When the offending hair is out of the way, the man gestures at his computer that is still shutting down outside, and then at his messenger bag thrown haphazardly on the floor. Papers peak out from the bag; Some of them appear to be graded, others not. Those that are graded never score lower than an A though.

George is reminded of the twitter incident. He hopes the room is dark enough to obscure his blush.

“Honestly, sir?” Alexander says as he sags forward, head propped up by his hand. “I’m exhausted.”

He nods in understanding, glances at the papers peeking out of the messenger bag again. “You know,” he begins, shifting forward and lowering his voice. “This will all be over soon.”

Alexander nods, albeit tiredly. _I know_ , he seems to convey.

George reaches forward, pats his shoulder as if in sympathy. His hand lingers, a heavy weight on Alexander’s shoulders. “It will all be worth it,” he assures.

The younger man looks up at him. Exhaustion is still apparent in every line of his body, but there is something unreadable in his eyes.

“It will all be worth it,” he agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> "Did you just update and not resolve the cliffhanger from yesterday?" you ask indignantly.  
> "Yes," I answer with my mouth full of chips, lounging on my bed.
> 
> To be fair, I did say not to expect an answer so soon.
> 
> I love Washington, I do. I love how done he is with everything. If George Washington had twitter, his bio would say, "Do I look like one of those toys with a 'try me' sticker? Because yall be _testing_ me".
> 
> I sustain myself off kudos and comments, please leave those if you think this fic is worthy.
> 
> Anyway, my tumblr is [here](http://bisexualexhamilton.tumblr.com) and my brand new writing tumblr is [here](http://covetsubjugation.tumblr.com) as well. See you!
> 
> P.S The gif from Alex's nsfw account is [this one](http://67.media.tumblr.com/9ee8693a3344e20ed27087ede0be76ac/tumblr_inline_n90n4w0A2K1rr6ht5.gif).


End file.
